


autumn comes early

by beardsley



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Steve Rogers is the Winter Soldier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 06:08:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beardsley/pseuds/beardsley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky meets the Winter Soldier, and negotiates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [осень ранняя в этом году](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5342531) by [agewa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agewa/pseuds/agewa)



> Title from Ray Bradbury.

'I thought you were dead,' are the first words that leave Bucky's mouth when he comes to, like a morbid echo from a past he sometimes thinks it'd be easier to just forget. 'They told me you died.'

Crashed ass-over-elbow into an iceberg, they said; just splinters left and no conceivable chance of survival, they said. We're sorry for your loss, they even said.

But the first rule of SHIELD is that Nick Fury lies. Bucky can't even muster up any righteous anger; he's got bigger problems right now, chief among them the thing where he's in a dark, damp warehouse, beat up, bleeding, half out of his uniform (so much for secret identities) and cuffed to a chair with his hands behind his back. The only part of his body that doesn't scream in pain is his left arm, but he's hyperconscious of the pull of artificial muscles anyway, the scar tissue on his shoulder itching.

And then, oh, then there is Steve, who isn't Steve, who is wearing a solid grey uniform with a red star embroidered over his heart. Steve, who raises an eyebrow.

'I thought you'd be bigger, so I guess tonight is full of disappointments,' he says, and something twists in the pit of Bucky's stomach, cold and aching and god, this can't be happening. Six months he's been in the future, six months of grieving for a hero he had no more claim over than the adoring masses and a man who the adoring masses liked to forget was there under the uniform, six months of wearing red and white and blue like he's not a fucking fraud, and now two months tracking the world's best assassin, but what no one told Bucky is that the world's best assassin is Steve motherfucking Rogers, like Lazarus reborn, with all the humanity left on the other side.

The Winter Soldier's accent is pitch-perfect, his speech patterns, everything. He's maybe two or three years older, his hair is shorter and he needs a shave, but it's still _Steve_ , still as familiar to Bucky as anything in the world. But then he forces himself to look Steve in the eye, to look for recognition there, and that's where the illusion breaks like nothing more than a castle in sand, like glass. The Winter Soldier's eyes are cold, dead in a way they never were even in the worst of the war, void of any emotion.

If Bucky needed any more proof that this is Steve in name only, and maybe not even that, he gets it right then: the Winter Soldier crosses the distance between them and grabs Bucky by the hair, jerks his head sideways so he can stick him with what Bucky really fucking hopes is a clean needle —

'Fuck,' he moans when ten seconds later his system is drowning in sedatives or something worse, ' _fuck_.'

The Winter Soldier lets him go, and moves to crouch in front of the chair. He cocks his head to one side, and in his hand there's Bucky's headset.

'Cap, this is Romanoff, do you copy?' Natasha sounds angry, which means she must be out of her mind with worry, which means if — _when_ Bucky gets out of here he's in for a world of hurt. Rule one of the Avengers: you do not make Natasha worry. 'Captain, your biometrics are offline, we need you to check in. How copy?' Silence, then: ' _James_ —'

The Winter Soldier switches off the receiver. 'James,' he repeats, eyes narrowed. 'Is that your name?'

'No,' Bucky says, trying not to slur his words, and as deadpan as he can when he's flying higher than a kite. 'They call me that for shits and giggles. They also call me Grumpypants.'

The Winter Soldier doesn't laugh. Bucky didn't expect him to.

'My employers have so many questions for you, _James_ ,' the Winter Soldier says. Bucky's name on his tongue is like a purr, except it's also wrong, wrong and mocking. And in all the time they've known each other, Bucky doesn't think Steve ever used his first name.

'Buy me a drink first,' he shoots back. He's too warm, and keeping his eyes focused on the Winter Soldier is giving him a massive fucking migraine so he shuts his eyes and tries to will the nausea away. Panic is creeping up his spine, burning hot, because he knows this: he knows how it works, they'll drug you and poke you and ask their fucking questions, and they'll leave you broken and begging — but there's no _they_ here, no scientists, just Steve.

Steve, who isn't Steve, who needs a shave and whose eyes are dead.

'Killing you isn't within the parameters of this mission,' the Winter Soldier says. 'If you cooperate, you'll live.'

Is that what Zola's goons said? _We are not killers_ , in heavily accented English, _the plan is not for you to die_. He sure fucking wanted to die, by the end, but then there was —

'Steve,' Bucky whispers, hoarse.

The Winter Soldier backhands him, doesn't even check his enhanced strength, and the force of it sends the chair toppling to the side. It breaks, old dry wood falling apart with a dry crack. Bucky hits the ground and doesn't make a sound, blood welling in his mouth and the concrete floor cold against his face. He grits his teeth and swallows and keeps quiet. Steve leans over him — no, Jesus Christ, this isn't Steve. The Winter Soldier leans over him.

'Who gave SHIELD the intel about Gruzinsky?' he asks, calm and gentle, but that's a lie.

'I got no fucking idea, pal.' Sergeant James Barnes, Bucky thinks. Three two five five seven. Except that's not right either, he's no sergeant any more, got promoted to better match his new uniform, and the numbers on his dog tags are different too. He's as much of a lie as the Winter Soldier, neither of them dead and rotting the way they should be.

The Winter Soldier sighs. 'They must've told you something. You're Captain America.' He says it like that's supposed to mean anything, like SHIELD ever tells Bucky jack shit.

Bucky chokes out a laugh, and presses his cheek to the floor. 'Yeah, you'd think so.' Stay conscious. Don't pass out. Talk your way out of this, Barnes. His hands are shaking too much to try and break out of the cuffs, so he tries to relax, look nonthreatening, more out of it than he really is — which is still plenty. When Bruce went berserk that one time in Stark Tower, it worked, it got Bucky through a close encounter save for a few broken bones. The Winter Soldier isn't the Hulk.

He's the exact fucking opposite, in fact, but all Bucky can do right now is hope for the goddamn best.

'I got no idea what the fuck you want from me,' he says, breath coming a little faster, feeling like the blood in his mouth is turning to ashes. 'So how about I make you a better deal?'

'I don't do deals.' The Winter Soldier straightens, crosses his arms over his chest and from where Bucky is lying on the floor, he can't see that red star.

He swallows around the bile in his throat. 'I'm told I'm hella convincing.'

The Winter Soldier snorts. 'I don't think so,' he says, but his expression shifts into something less blank. He wonders. He wonders what Bucky might offer. Hell, he probably wonders why an American is trying to negotiate with a terrorist; Bucky knows all about that policy.

He also knows about the Winter Solider. Natasha spared them no gruesome details in the debriefing; she listed every civilian, every man and woman and child, all the deaths written off as collateral. She fronted detachment so well she fooled everyone, save maybe Clint, but Bucky knew what to look for. He wonders, now, deliriously, what would Natasha do — and he knows the answer before he's even done thinking it.

She'd survive.

'What, you never went against orders?' he asks, hoarse, the man before him blurry enough around the edges that Bucky could almost kid himself he's talking to Steve and not courting slow and painful death. 'Never been tempted? Never pushed back?'

'I —' The Winter Soldier closes his mouth with an audible click and scowls.

'You have.' Bucky's voice grates in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. He doesn't know if it's because of the drugs or because he hasn't been this fucking terrified since they had him strapped to a table in the ass-end of nowhere in Austria. 'You have, I can tell. You're not dumb muscle. Maybe you don't remember your name —'

Lightning fast, the Winter Soldier has him by the throat, pressing him into the floor. Bucky forces himself to grin. '— but you can think for yourself, Steve.'

The Winter Soldier lifts him off the ground by the neck, and god, that hurts, _everything_ hurts. But then a shadow passes over the Winter Soldier's face. He watches Bucky with the sort of single-minded intensity that should be goddamn illegal, and it shouldn't go straight to Bucky's dick, but this is Steve, so of course it fucking does. For all the years Bucky had wanted Steve to look at him like that, don't they say be careful what you wish for?

'You're interesting,' the Winter Soldier says, finally. Then the pressure on Bucky's throat disappears, and he drops back to the ground. His right side takes most of the impact, and he groans in pain. He thinks his shoulder might be dislocated, and those are definitely cracked ribs; Jesus, the Winter Soldier really did a number on him. When SHIELD fishes his body out of the ocean, Coulson will bring him back to life just to kill him again.

He spits out blood, and: 'I try.'

The Winter Soldier steps over him and bends down to uncuff Bucky's hands, but before Bucky can move even an inch the Winter Soldier grabs his left arm and presses something small into the centre of his palm. Bucky feels the electrostatic charge go off like a series of fireworks, pure fucking agony in his every nerve ending, sweat beading at his temples, and he lets out a choked-back moan. And then it stops, and he can breathe again. His left arm hangs useless, unmoving, but Bucky forces himself to get up on one elbow.

The hand in his hair makes him jerk back, or try to, but the Winter Soldier's grip is sure. He didn't even take off his glove.

'Keep trying,' he murmurs, low and rough. His fingers tighten in Bucky's hair, and he pulls Bucky up, to his knees.

And then it's not so much talk-your-way-out-of-getting-shot as much as — Bucky hasn't gone down on his knees for a stranger since he was sixteen. But this is Steve, and this is staying alive, and with Bucky's vision blurry from the sedatives, from the pain, the Winter Soldier could almost look like who Bucky needs him to be. He wanted this, didn't he? He always wanted this, in their tiny rented room and before he went off to war, and fuck him if he didn't want this afterwards, too.

His hand doesn't shake all that much when he undoes the Winter Soldier's belt, deactivates the traps and catches. Bucky drags the zipper down with his teeth, and the Winter Soldier breathes out something that could be a laugh.

It's now or never, so Bucky shuts his eyes and just gets to it, he sucks off the Winter Soldier and tells himself this is Steve, this is Steve, so it's okay. They're drunk, or at least Bucky is, too drunk to think properly; and the — Steve fists his hand in Bucky's hair because neither of them knew that Steve could be pushy but that's okay, too. This is Steve, and the pain in Bucky's shoulder and ribs is because of something different and stupid that doesn't matter, and after he's done Steve will tell him what an idiot he is for getting into trouble, and he'll tape his ribs and help him reset the shoulder, but for now Steve's breath hitches and it's him, so Bucky moans around his dick because he can't not.

'You're enjoying this,' the Winter Soldier says, and his voice might be familiar, but Steve didn't sound like that in his entire fucking life, and Bucky nearly chokes, tears stinging in the corners of his eyes.

The Winter Soldier just laughs, breathless. He says something in Russian, low and heavy and maybe amused; there's no way for Bucky to just tune him out, but he damn well tries to — this is Steve, this is 1942 and everything that happened after Bucky shipped out was just a nightmare. Bucky breathes through his nose, knees aching and his hand on the — on Steve's hip is clammy with sweat, because he's drunk. This is Steve, so Bucky swallows him down, fights the reflex to throw up and — and the hair at his temples is sweaty, the back of his neck, Steve's fingers keeping him in place and Bucky forces himself to not struggle.

He's not ready for it when the — when Steve comes down his throat, pulling his hair, so he chokes again but swallows, and when Steve lets him go he drops down to the ground and gags, and tries to breathe. He doesn't want to open his eyes, because then it won't be Steve, will it, but the sound of the Winter Soldier's boots on the concrete floor make him jump a little, and then it's too late.

The Winter Soldier watches him with frank curiosity, one eyebrow raised, but there's colour high in his cheeks and he's breathing fast even as he zips up his uniform pants and resets his belt, all the catches and traps.

'You're right,' he says, and crouches next to Bucky. 'You _are_ convincing.'

Bucky couldn't string together a coherent sentence now to save his life, so he doesn't bother. He doesn't know what the Winter Soldier injected him with, but he's still too hot, burning up like when he caught Steve's scarlet fever, and he has to grit his teeth to stop them from chattering. The ground is a sweet, cold blessing on his skin. Blood roars in his ears, louder and louder.

'I'd say your friends have about three hours to get you to a hospital,' the Winter Soldier says. He reaches out, touches Bucky's cheek — his fingers are freezing and the touch feels like sandpaper and Bucky reels back, gasping, even though the Winter Soldier took off his glove and it's a real touch, no matter how fake. Bucky forces himself to focus on the Winter Soldier even though it _hurts_ , everything, every muscle in his body aching, and the Winter Soldier touches him again, mouth twisting in a smile.

'I want you to remember this, James,' he says, tracing the line of Bucky's jaw. 'You owe me your life. Remember this, because I collect my debts.'

Bucky isn't sure if the sound crawling up his throat ever makes it out of his mouth, or if he just moans in his head. He presses his face into the ground and tries to make his body stop shaking, and then there's the deafening clamour as the warehouse doors slide open; the light that falls in is too much, and he screws his eyes shut. This time he definitely makes a noise, a small pitiful keen. Breathe in. Breathe out.

There is nothing more he'd like to do than just lie on the floor and wait to die, curled up on himself like a sick kid, but a part of him — a part that sounds a lot like Steve, which doesn't fucking help — screams at him to get up, get on his feet, right now, _soldier_. So he does, he manages to pull himself up on his right elbow. He waits for the nausea to pass; when it doesn't, he lets out something like a broken growl, because fuck, _fuck_ , but then he sees it. His headset, where the Winter Soldier must've dropped it.

No. He left it there, deliberately.

By the time Bucky switches on the receiver, then the GPS tracker, the remains of his uniform are soaked through with sweat and he can barely catch his breath. He rests his forehead against the floor and chokes out, 'This is — Barnes. Copy.'

By the time the team gets there, and Tony busts down the door, and Natasha is checking his pupils and barking at Thor to help her carry him, and Bruce is running back into the quintjet to get his hands on whatever the fuck they have for first aid there, and Clint is sweeping the warehouse for other signs of activity and finding nothing, Bucky feels like he can see everything from outside his own body, like he's a level removed from the real world.

Later, in a SHIELD medical facility in Prague, they get to him in time to counter the neurotoxin Steve injected him with, though the estimate was wrong: there were two hours, and after that there'd be irreversible brain damage. Bucky spends the whole week in bed there, and he's never felt so weak in his life. The white coats only clear him for a long distance flight, and as soon as the team is back in New York Bucky's shipped off to the Manhattan HQ medical division.

Fury pays him a visit, between various teammates checking in to make sure Bucky's still breathing (he has a stack of DVDs from Tony, which he can't watch because his room doesn't have this kind of equipment; he has books and comic books from Bruce, Pop-Tarts from Thor, a magazine about sniper rifles from Clint and a huge Russian doorstopper from Natasha, because she finds it appalling that Bucky never read any Tolstoy).

'Captain Barnes,' Fury says, and waves Bucky off when he tries to get up and salute. 'I'm not here in an official capacity. Agent Coulson will debrief you fully as soon as you're cleared, but I need you to tell me something now.'

'If I can.'

Fury levels him with a flat look. 'Did you get a good look at him?'

Bucky doesn't blink when he says, 'Sorry, sir.'

There's a pause, and it hangs heavy like smoke, but then Fury just nods. He leaves without another word. For a long moment Bucky just stares at the closed door, and carefully avoids looking at the cameras recording his every move. There's a couple of pills on the bedside table; the docs said he might get anxiety, or post-something stress, and to take them then.

Bucky hates drugs, and those that put him to sleep are the worst, but he takes two pills and swallows them dry.

His dreams are always gone when he wakes up; it feels like absolution, but Bucky knows it will pass.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bridges need to be burned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Repost of a story I've already published, as I'm changing it from a series to a chaptered work.)

Steve picks him up in a grey truck with paint peeling off its sides, just like he said he would. The plates are local, and Bucky doesn’t ask where Steve got the car. Sure, he wonders: if he stole it off some civilian, if there’s a body to be found in a ditch somewhere, or if Department X has contacts in the Swiss countryside. Bucky wonders, then makes himself stop, and doesn’t ask.

He gets in the back and stretches his legs on the seat, as much as he can. Instead of watching the postcard-worthy landscape that passes them by he hunches his shoulders and wraps his jacket tighter around himself. It’s a worn green army jacket, a size too big for him, but not big enough to be Steve’s. Steve got it out of the trunk and handed it to Bucky without a word. Bucky doesn’t have anything, not even a wallet, no ID. People in the 21st century are obsessed with identification, with putting their name and address and date of birth and phone number and bank details on every piece of plastic they can, like they’ll disappear without that tiny bit of confirmation. Bucky thinks that’s ass-backwards; when you spread yourself so thin, what’s left?

He rests his head against the seat, and considers pretending to be asleep. Pretending, because it’ll take some time before he can sleep with Steve in such close proximity.

There’s still blood under his fingernails, dark red half-moons that will take a few tries to get out completely. Hundred of miles later, and he didn’t even think to wash his hands. He stares at them for a moment. If he expects a flash of guilt or regret or maybe fear, he’s shit out of luck. It probably makes him a terrible human being. Bucky doesn’t — no, he cares. It’s just that he’s never been that good a person anyway.

He can count on one hand the number of people he killed with his bare hands, and all of them he took by surprise: approach from behind, one hand over the mouth, the other holding the jaw, twist hard. If you don’t hear the wet snap of vertebrae, finish the job with a knife. But he’s a soldier, and taking a life isn’t actually that hard once you go out there and it’s either you or the other guy coming home in a coffin. Bucky doesn’t remember the first man he killed, and he’d be a fucking moron to think this will be his last.

He knows Steve is watching him in the rear view mirror, not because he can see it but because the hairs at the back of his neck stand on end. It’s probably a bad thing that he’s getting used to it, to his body reacting like that: a jolt of panic when Steve gets too close, fight-or-flight kicking in when Steve touches him, and then forcing that instinct to turn to fight-or-fuck. Or maybe it should be fight-and-fuck. It’s hard to tell, most times.

‘Did you know him well?’ Steve asks.

Bucky closes his eyes and turns his face to the seat. ‘Not really.’ He’s kinda proud when his voice comes out normal, steady, just a little tired. ‘He was, I guess he was disappointed. I’m not exactly who people mean when they think about Captain America.’

 _You are_ , goes unsaid, and they both know it. The words hang at the tip of Bucky’s tongue, but don’t make it out. Steve doesn’t react well to Bucky’s pathetic attempts at reminding him of the past; he doesn’t show it, right up until he does, in bursts of violence that feel more personal than usual, more directed. Tailored to push right where Bucky hates it most, and it’s worse than the physical proof he has that Steve is different, now, like the knotted scar on Bucky’s throat; those times, Steve doesn’t leave a mark, but the _lack_ burns through Bucky’s skin and bone like scars never could.

‘Nothing lasts forever,’ Steve says, not even faking reassurance or anything, just a statement of fact: he didn’t last, and then Bucky didn’t last. Maybe Captain America is a doomed legacy. Bucky tries not to wonder how long the next dumb schmuck will last, who Fury will get into the suit before people start noticing Bucky’s pretty fucking obvious absence.

‘Some things do. We’re pretty resilient motherfuckers, for one thing.’

Steve barks out a laugh. He doesn’t laugh the way he used to, but at least he sounds honest.

‘Get some sleep, Bucky,’ he says. The way he uses the name, like it comes natural, could almost fool him. It’s a lie, though, and one Bucky can’t even see the point of. Because when Steve has got him spread on a cheap bed in a motel or youth hostel, pressed with his cheek against the wall in some filthy bathroom, begging or gagged or with the edge of a knife on his throat keeping him quiet, sometimes with his hands tied, left arm always deactivated with the electrostatic charge that almost makes Bucky pass out from pain — then, then it’s only ever _James_.

Because this isn’t Steve, but he’s all Bucky has.

And shit, maybe _James_ should stay. Maybe _Bucky_ , whoever that is supposed to be, should keep out of it; maybe that part of him should keep away from those motels and hostels and bathrooms; maybe Bucky should die, the way Steve died, and came back different. Maybe wherever Steve is taking him — and Bucky should probably worry more that he doesn’t know, but then, it’s not like he’d say no anyway, is it? — maybe they could give Bucky a magic pill that will make him come back different, too.

Bucky turns to look at Steve in the rear view mirror, and forces himself to relax when Steve meets his eye.

‘If you tell me where we’re going,’ he says, ‘I can take the wheel later.’

Steve smiles, with just the corner of his mouth. ‘I should be good for another thirty hours.’

‘Fine, have it your way.’ With a huff, Bucky turns back and tries to make himself comfortable and closes his eyes. In his head he adds, _Punk_ , but it isn’t a reference Steve would get.

Even lulled by the monotonous hum of the engine, by the comfortable silence, Bucky doesn’t fall asleep. Sooner or later exhaustion will win out, he knows. Until then he can just try not to think too much, and try not to wonder how long it will take SHIELD to find Coulson’s body.

~

'Tell me how you did it,' Steve says, later, when they stop at a shitty hotel. His weight over Bucky isn't comfortable, not with his left arm useless, and even bare-ass naked there's violence right under Steve's skin. Steve jerks him off slowly, like there's all the time in the world; he likes watching Bucky come apart, and he likes to make it last. His hand on Bucky's dick is warm and slick with sweat and Bucky shouldn't wish he knew how that felt _before_. He knows now, it's enough.

With Steve just inches away, all the points of contact of their skin, Steve supporting himself on one hand next to Bucky's head — it's hard to think, to concentrate on anything other than Steve's hand on him, and Steve's breath on his neck, and Steve's erection pressed against Bucky's thigh. But that sounded like an order, so Bucky takes in a shaky breath, in and out.

'One hand over his mouth,' he whispers into the heavy, stale silence, shifting on the sweat-soaked sheets as much as Steve will let him. He's got his right hand cupping the back of Steve's head, and he can kid himself that he just likes how it feels, the short hair between his fingers, dragging his nails over the back of Steve's neck, but the truth is that it's a safety net. If he takes a wrong step, if Steve goes for his throat, if Steve _snaps_ ; maybe Bucky couldn't hold him off for long, but it's a start. Steve slides his mouth from Bucky's neck to his jaw, and god, he's smiling.

Bucky swallows and closes his eyes and just — feels, tries to, his hips coming off the bed to meet Steve's hand. 'He was good, I've seen him in action. I'm better.'

'Yeah, you are,' Steve says. If it's supposed to be a compliment, it falls kinda flat, but he makes up for it. He picks up the pace, twisting his hand with each upstroke, and Bucky tips his head back, gritting his teeth on a moan.

'I wanted — fuck, _fuck_.' He pulls Steve down, even if that's against the rules, but Bucky pulls him down for a kiss, sloppy and wet and mostly just the slide of tongue. Steve lets out a noise that isn't quite approval, but isn't all that bad either; he lets Bucky moan into his mouth, and his hand on Bucky's dick moves quicker — and then he stops. He goes back to the slow, fucking unbearable rhythm and leans back to look at Bucky, eyes hooded and pupils blown, and his expression is dark.

'I wanted to make it quick,' Bucky forces himself to say, and has to run his tongue over his lower lip, look for a taste there that he probably imagines. Steve's eyes drop to his mouth, then up again. 'But I — didn't, I didn't. I choked him.'

Steve smirks down at him. 'Always works.' He shifts, moves to kneel over Bucky. When he takes his hand away, Bucky swears under his breath; he's suddenly cold, and lifts on knee and tells himself to wait.

'Did you look him in the eye?' Steve asks, and slowly, telegraphing his moves like he worries Bucky might bolt otherwise, presses his fingers around Bucky's throat. Every instinct in Bucky is screaming at him to run, get the fuck away, but his left arm is deactivated and fuck, he's already naked and ready to beg, what does it matter any more? So he just nods. Yeah, he did look Coulson in the eye. It didn't change anything.

And then Steve licks his other palm and reaches behind himself and wraps his fingers around Bucky's dick again. Bucky moans, hoarse and barely above an empty exhale; he can breathe, but not enough, and it hurts. He can feel himself break out in sweat, hot and cold.

Steve leans over him. 'What then, James?'

'I —' Bucky can't help it, he slides his right hand down to Steve's bicep; this is how the muscles work when he's choking Bucky, and it shouldn't be good, it shouldn't feel like that, but Bucky wants it anyway, wants every single thing Steve wants to do to him, and then he wants more. 'I waited,' he rasps, 'he fought me, I waited, and — god, oh _god_ , fuck — slit his throat —'

'Good,' and it sounds like a growl, like Bucky thinks wolves would sound if they were human. Steve brings their mouths together, bruising and harsh. Before Bucky can do anything except breathe again when the pressure on his neck is gone, Steve slides down his body and kneels between his thighs. For a split second Bucky almost panics, fear heavy in his mouth, but Steve doesn't attack — he grabs Bucky's hips in a grip so hard it makes the bones creak, and wraps his mouth around Bucky's dick.

'Jesus, fucking Christ, _please_ ,' Bucky gasps out, nearly levitating off the bed. He presses the heels of his palms against his eyes to stop himself from screaming; Steve never, the Winter Soldier _never_ , except now he does. He doesn't even have to fight gag reflex, or maybe he's just really good at fronting, but Bucky feels it when his dick hits the roof of Steve's throat and Steve just goes with it, fucking swallows him down and wraps his fingers around the shaft, his mouth touching his hand.

It takes a while for Bucky to realise he's talking, choked half-broken pleas and prayers and he's begging, for Steve to wait; not yet, not yet, except he's got no say in this, even his body fighting him. So Bucky just gives up, and gives in, and rides the adrenaline rush, high on the muffled noises Steve makes — nothing loud, but it's enough. He doesn't check himself, and reaches down to put his hand on Steve's head and waits for pain that doesn't come. Steve leans into the touch, taking Bucky's dick in deeper like it's a fucking competition, like he's trying to prove something, and his hair is too short for Bucky to get a proper hold of it, to fist his hand in it like he wants to.

When it hits him, he gets a grip on himself just enough to breathe, 'Wait, _Steve_ ,' and Steve gets it; he pulls off and Bucky moans again, pressing his face into the sheets, already fucking mourning the loss of Steve's mouth on him, but Steve just jerks him off hard and fast and then it's not even up to Bucky. He comes with a pained moan, feeling like it's wrenched out of him by force. He shakes with it, eyes screwed shut, as Steve eases him through the aftershocks, almost gentle — and that, _that_ is enough to break him, to drive home that this isn't Steve, this could never be Steve; they'll never be okay again, and Bucky wants him with every inch of his body anyway.

'I killed for you,' Bucky — it's almost a sob, air rushing out of his lungs, the smell of sweat and spunk and sex almost choking him. 'I. I killed for you.'

Steve moves up, until he can press Bucky against the bed, big and heavy, hard against Bucky's hip. 'Would you do it again?'

It takes a lot more than strength to look Steve in the eye. It takes surrender, and resignation, and the knowledge that whatever happens, Bucky made a choice. He's following the Winter Soldier.

'You know I would,' he says.

Steve smiles. 'Get on your hands and knees.'

~

There's another hotel, in the Swiss Alps. Its name is French, and the people Steve and Bucky pass in the reception are visibly, obviously rich. Everyone is white, everyone wears things that seem carefully tailored for the exact effect of careless stylishness, even the few kids around look spoilt but well-bred. Bucky feels wrong inside his own skin; he couldn't belong less in this place if he tried. He sticks close to Steve, a step behind him, and always on his left side. Steve prefers to keep a distance between himself and Bucky's left arm when it's activated, and Bucky tries not to wonder if that's gonna be a permanent thing.

Steve books a room in French, so for all Bucky knows he might be offering to go down on the receptionist later; she giggles and takes his credit card and they exchange what sounds like mindless pleasantries. Steve signs something, and Bucky doesn't have to see to know the name is bogus.

Their room is fucking unbelievable, something more suited to Tony.

'There are two bags in the trunk,' Steve says. Bucky just nods, and leaves without another word.

One of the bags is light, probably clothes; the other is heavy, and there's clatter of plastic and metallic parts. Bucky suspects, but doesn't make sure until he's back in their room. He zips it open, and lifts his eyes to Steve in a silent question.

'You don't have to assemble it now,' Steve says. From the other bag, he takes out a thin manila folder. 'This is our target.'

Bucky swallows, and his hand doesn't shake when he reaches for the file, but Steve must see the change in his posture, because he snorts.

'Sorry, Buck. You're gonna have to earn your keep.'

Bucky opens the folder.

After a moment, he asks: 'The kids too?'

'Acceptable collateral damage,' Steve says, shrugging with one shoulder. Bucky doesn't try to look for a shadow of emotion where he knows there is none, just nods.

That evening, he unlocks the door with hands that shake, after all, and manages to make it to the bathroom before he throws up. This is how Steve finds him, some time later: on his knees in front of the toilet, with his forehead pressed against the cold seat, eyes shut tight. Bucky doesn't fight when Steve hustles him into the shower, doesn't protest when freezing cold water drenches them both and doesn't care if it ever gets warm. He fists his hands in Steve's white dress shirt, rests his head against Steve's shoulder. His eyes are dry and he's breathing normally, but there is something — he never had asthma, but he thinks this is what an approaching asthma attack must feel like, when your lungs feel too small for all the air you need to survive.

He doesn't know how long they stand under the shower. He can't look up, because even if he can take the Winter Soldier as is, accept the Winter Soldier as a choice he made, he allows himself to be a weak pathetic fucker for just a moment. He keeps his eyes closed and keeps breathing through his nose, the sound of the water drowning out anything he might want to think about, and he needs to pretend that this is Steve with his hands resting lightly on Bucky's hips, with his chin on the top of Bucky's head.

'Are you okay?' Steve asks, eventually.

It's such a fucking lie. He doesn't want to know if Bucky is really fine, he probably couldn't care less; what he wants to know is if Bucky is going to be a liability, if he's going to fall apart right now. If Steve made a mistake, and if this will have to get ugly. The bridges Bucky burned are unspoken between them, but still very much there. If Bucky says no, he probably won't even make it out of the bathroom alive.

He lifts his head, water running down his face, his hair clinging to his temples and plastered to his forehead. He looks the Winter Soldier in the eye.

'I'm fine.'


End file.
